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Dog's emo story
What was life? You woke up, you ate, you shoved air through your lungs and forced blood through your veins. These were the thoughts that filled the old woman's mind as she rocked gently in her chair, fingers squeezing the sides tightly. The land around her was calm and serene. A breeze danced through the air, ruffling her grey hairs, and the birds sung and the water gurgled. The rich rays of the setting sun bathed the old woman in a golden glow. Yet the light also made her tears sparkle as they slipped down her cheek. The wind only carried the sound of her muffled sobs out into the air. The old woman was trembling, shaking in her dizzying spin of thoughts. What was life? Life was a thief. It had stolen from her a husband, a daughter, a grandson. And her hope. She remembered when he left those decades ago. The gun was in his right hand, and his thumb rubbed it mindlessly as he talked. He told her he was going to help them fight to keep their freedom. Fight for the freedom of their neighbors, their children, the world as they knew it—but most of all, he’d said, stepping forward and cupping her cheek, fighting for her. “Come back soon,” she said, placing a kiss on his lips. “I’ll miss you.” “Don’t worry. You won’t be waiting too long.” But she did. The war dragged on and by the end of it, the woman had already raised their child to a full four years without him. And she was the one who got the letter, who had to sit down with the little girl, heart aching and eyes wet and told her, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Papa’s not coming home. The girl did not understand. Only four years old. But he said he’d come home. He was wrong. And because she didn’t understand, she did not cry. The woman was left to weep her tears alone. Even though her daughter tried to console her, she didn’t know Papa was dead and couldn’t find the right words to make her mother stop crying. So, with the aid of no one but time, the woman was forced to stitch herself back together. Because she realized she had to be there for the girl. By the time the girl grew up, the woman had accepted his death and moved on. She no longer cried, but only smiled fondly. The years became a whirl and before she knew it, the girl was her own woman now, with her own house, her own wife, her own son. All three of them now lying underneath the earth. She recalled so vividly what had occurred but a few weeks ago. Walking along the road away from her friend’s house, still full of food and laughter. Passing the turn to her daughter’s place and figuring she’d visit. She remembered the smoke and blaze and how it made her stomach drop. How she stumbled forward with her cane only to throw it away and make a mad dash towards the fire. The screams rocketing from inside the house ricocheted like bullets in her ears and her mind, forcing her forward. A hand—oh so small, it was a child’s hand—peeped out of the window and the old woman rushed to grasp it. But she couldn’t. Her legs buckled and she fell, unable to stop rolling down the slope, only watching in horror as the gap between her and the flaming family widened and widened. That was when her world ended. Seeing them burn, powerless to help and stuck in an endless cycle of straining to get up only to fall back down every time. Not even able to crawl to their aid, the screams of pain bleeding into her ears. They were buried next to her husband. This was life. Life was a thief. A heartache. Nothing but pain between glimmers of happiness. Rocking in her chair, the sun sinking beneath the horizon, the old woman let out one final breath and was snatched up like a leaf on the winds.